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Still, Co
"You don't, but until you untie me, I'm a hostage," Lev-says. "Once I'm free, I'm a fugitive, like you. Tied up, I'm the enemy. Cut loose, I'm a friend."
"If you don't run," says Co
Risa impatiently begins untying the vines. "Unless we want to leave him here, we'll have to take that chance." Co
8 Risa
Risa finds herself unsettled by the food wrappers and broken bits of plastic they start coming across in the woods, because the first sign of civilization is always trash. Civilization means people who could recognize them if their faces have been smeared on the newsnet.
Risa knows that staying completely clear of human contact is an impossibility. She has no illusion about their chances, or their ability to remain unseen. As much as they need to remain anonymous, they ca
"No, we don't," Co
Risa sighs, trying to hold together a patience that has already worn through. "I'm sure you're very good at stealing, but 1 don't think it's a good idea."
Co
"No," says Risa, "but if we're clever about it instead of rushing into this blind, we'll have a better chance."
Her words or maybe just her intentionally condescending tone makes Co
Risa notices Lev watching the argument from a distance. If he's going to run, thinks Risa, now's the time for him to do it, while Co
"Don't you walk away from me!" she growls at Co
Co
"You would if you had half a brain, but obviously you don't!"
Co
Risa is careful not to struggle because struggling gives him the advantage. She lets her tone of voice convey all the weight. "Let go of me."
"Why? Exactly what do you think I'll do to you?"
"This is the second time you've touched me without permission," Risa says. Still, he does not let go—yet she does notice his grip isn't all that threatening. It isn't tight, it's loose. It isn't rough, it's gentle. She could easily pull out of it with a simple flick of her wrist. So why doesn't she?
Risa knows he's doing this to make a point, but what the point is, Risa isn't sure. Is he warning her that he can hurt her if he wants to? Or maybe his message is in the gentle nature of his grip—a way of saying he's not the hurting type.
Well, it doesn't matter, thinks Risa. Even a gentle violation is a violation.
She looks at his knee. A well-placed kick could break his kneecap.
"I could take you out in a second," she threatens.
If he's concerned, he doesn't show it. "I know."
Somehow he also knows that she won't do it—that the first time was just a reflex. If she were to hurt him a second time, though, it would be a conscious act. It would be by choice.
"Step off," she says. Her voice now lacks the force it had only moments before.
This time he listens and lets go, moving back to a respectable distance. They both could have hurt one another, but neither of them did. Risa isn't quite sure what that means, all she knows is that she feels angry at him for such a mixture of reasons, she can't sort them out.
Then suddenly a voice calls to them from the right. "This is very entertaining and all, but I don't think fighting is going to help much."
It's Lev—and Risa realizes that her little ruse has backfired. She had set out to test him with a fake argument but the argument turned real, and in the process she completely forgot about Lev. He could have taken off, and they would not have known until he was long gone.
Risa throws Co
"Good one," Co
"What?"
Co
Risa is bowled over. "You knew that?"
Co
If Risa felt uncertain about him before, it's even worse now. She has no idea what to think. "So . . . everything that happened back there was all a show?"
Now it's Co
Risa has to hold back a smile. Suddenly she's feeling strangely at ease with Co
She holds on to that unexpected feeling as the two of them catch up with Lev, and move toward the frightening prospect of civilization.
Part Two
Storked
"You can't change laws without first changing human nature."
— NURSE GRETA
"You can't change human nature without first changing the law."
—
NURSE YVONNE
9 Mother
The mother is nineteen, but she doesn't feel that old. She feels no wiser, no more capable of dealing with this situation, than a little girl. When, she wonders, did she stop being a child? The law says it was when she turned eighteen, but the law doesn't know her.
Still aching from the trauma of delivery, she holds her newborn close. It's just after dawn on a chilly morning. She moves now through back alleys. Not a soul around. Dumpsters cast angular black shadows. Broken bottles everywhere. This she knows is the perfect time of day to do this. There's less of a chance that coyotes and other scavengers would be out. She couldn't bear the thought of the baby suffering needlessly.